


Long Distance

by grey2510



Series: Longer Misc SPN Fics (10k+ words) [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (off screen/by phone), Angst, Awesome Jody Mills, Canon Compliant, Developing Destiel and Saileen, Episode: s12e06 Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox, F/M, Families of Choice, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, not an Elvis Katz appreciation fic, which is redundant tag tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Losing someone is never easy, nor is having them far away, no matter how often it happens in a hunter’s life. When Jody, Sam, and Dean travel up to Canada for the wake and funeral of Asa Fox, each is forced to confront some truths about family and who is really important in their lives.A 12x06 fic.





	1. Wheels Turning

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout out to ThayerKerbasy, who is always around to cheerlead and catch my random missing words, and who also cameo-wrote part of Ch. 3 (if that conversation looks familiar, it's because it also appears in Thayer's SPNCBB fic, [Always Stuck in Second Gear](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11146536/chapters/24868941) ... and if it _doesn't_ look familiar, that means you haven't read Thayer's fic, which is a sad situation to be in, honestly. It's not necessary to read that fic before this one or vice-versa, but you'd be depriving yourself of awesomeness if you didn't read it.)
> 
> Also, [marsjay](http://marsjay.tumblr.com/) \-- YOUR ART IS AMAZING! So much love and THANK YOU.  
> Art masterpost [here](http://marsjay.tumblr.com/post/163656391594/illustrations-for-the-lovely-fic-long-distance).

 

  


 

_We can talk about it now_  
_It's the same old riddle, only starting from the middle_  
_I'd fix it but I don't know how_

_— "We Can Talk" by The Band_

 

* * *

 

   **CHAPTER ONE**

 

_Come, let me show you how_  
_To keep the wheels turning, you've got to keep the engine churning_

  

Jody zips her bag closed, but her hand lingers on the straps, almost unwilling to close around them and lift the bag from the bed. The faint sounds of Dean and Sam moving around the living room and kitchen as they clean up from their aborted pizza and movie night trickle in through the crack of the bedroom door. She takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed. Just for a minute. She just needs a minute.

The front door opens and closes to the accompaniment of heavy bootsteps, and Jody assumes the boys have gone to pack up the car or maybe clean it out for the long drive. But maybe she’s just too used to dealing with the rat’s nest of clothing and books and god knows what else in the back of Claire’s car (Alex, in a somewhat odd twist of fate, is a little neater). Dean, she knows, is fiercely protective of that car of his, so maybe she should be less worried about clutter and more about the possible remnants of the hunt that brought them to her door.

Swallowing, she takes out her phone and types out a message to her two girls. She’s sure they probably won’t see it for a bit, but she can’t just leave the country without them knowing where she is. Or about Asa.  

> JODY: You don’t have to worry but I’m going to Canada for a few days. Asa died. I’m ok. Sam and Dean are going with me. Please have fun this wkend. Love you

She watches the three little dots blink as the message sends, and is about to put her phone away when it starts to ring.

"Claire?"

"Jody? We just got your text—Alex is driving. We switched off like an hour ago."

"Hey, Jody," Alex’s voice comes over the line; Claire must have the phone on speaker.

"Do you need us to come home? We can turn around," Claire offers, and Jody’s heart twinges.

"No," she says, with as much calm as she can. "I’ll be ok. I promise. Just wanted you to know where I am."

"Jody, you’re not ok," Alex says.

"Yeah, it’s _Asa_ ," Claire adds. "We _know_ , Jody. You guys weren’t exactly subtle."

In spite of everything, Jody huffs a small laugh. "Yeah, well…" They fall silent for a moment before Jody straightens up and says, "Really, I’m going to be fine. I’ll text you the address of where we’ll be if something happens. Claire, you have Sam and Dean’s number, right?"

"We both do," Alex answers.

"Yeah, and tell Dean I still think _Caddyshack_ is stupid," Claire says. Jody appreciates the effort at trying to keep things normal.

"I will. Love you, girls."

"You, too, Jody," Alex says.

"Have fun. Be safe. Don’t do anything stupid."

"Oh my god, we’ll be _fine_ ," Claire says, with what Jody is going to assume is a pretty impressive eye-roll.

Smiling a little, she hangs up, tucking the phone in her pocket. She rubs her fingers over her eyes, then catches sight of her appearance in the mirror over the bureau. Her shoulders fall a little, and she goes into the bathroom to splash a little cold water on her face. Hell, she might even bust out her rarely used make-up just to hide some of the puffiness around her eyes. Claire had actually thrown out Jody’s last thing of eye shadow with a nose-wrinkle, saying that anything that hadn’t been used since shoulder pads were cool shouldn’t come anywhere near your face (which was a gross exaggeration; Jody’s not _that_ bad).

After a few minutes with some cold water and a touch of concealer, Jody reassesses herself. In the kind of sickly yellow light of the bathroom, she can’t say she looks runway ready—ha—but she feels a little more put together and ready to face the boys and the long trip up to Manitoba.

But she’s not sure she’s ready to face Bucky and the guys and god, _Lorraine._ She wishes she could say she can’t imagine what Lorraine’s going through right now, losing a son, but, well…

Another deep breath.

Small steps.

 

When Jody finally makes it to the front door and finishes locking up the house, she finds Sam leaning with his hands in his pockets against the Impala by the driver’s door, which is wide open; Dean is sitting with one foot inside and one planted on the driveway. On his lap is a battered looking shoebox that he’s rifling through, and Jody—the good sheriff that she is—pretends that she doesn’t notice the fake IDs.

"Where the fuck are the fucking—" Dean grumbles before exclaiming, "Aha!" and pulling out two passports. He flips one open to read the name, then hands it to Sam. "Nice sideburns, Mr. McKagan."

"Shut up," Sam replies automatically, accepting the passport.

"McKagan, huh?" Jody says as she walks up, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. She looks to Dean. "Don’t tell me you’re going as Rose?"  

"No way. Plant. Classic." Dean eyes her bag. "Space in the trunk for that. Should be open."

As Jody goes to the trunk, Sam goes to the passenger side. "When was the last time we were out of the country, anyway?" he asks over the roof of the car.

"Purgatory—for me at least," Dean replies. Jody snorts and shakes her head, tossing her bag in the trunk and letting the lid slam closed; she’s not even surprised at this point by the weird things the boys say like they’re commenting on the weather. "Weren’t exactly checking passports."

Sam smirks as he folds himself into the passenger seat; Jody takes the seat behind him.

"Yeah, you and Cas just rode Dick there."

Jody’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline in amusement while Dean gives his brother a side-eyed glare for the ages. "So, the Japanese erotica flicks…" she says from the backseat, settling against the soft leather. She gets her own glare for her efforts, and she grins, but decides not to poke that bear again.

The engine roars to life and Dean steers them out of the driveway. Mrs. Paquette’s curtains across the street rustle as they cruise past, and Jody knows she’s going to get an earful when she gets back about the noise and the kind of company she keeps; it’s going to take all of Jody’s polite civility to not tell ol’ Dolores where she can shove that nose of hers.

"Scotland," Dean’s saying from the front seat; Jody assumes it’s in answer to Sam’s original question. She can’t see the younger brother’s face, but his shoulders tighten a little under his jacket. Dean either doesn’t notice Sam’s reaction, or has his own reasons for continuing his train of thought, grumbling, almost to himself, "Thank god we can just drive to Canada…"

"Dean’s afraid of flying," Sam supplies, turning in his seat a little to face both Dean and Jody.

"Not really my thing either," Jody commiserates. In the rearview mirror, Dean catches her eye. She wouldn’t call it a _fear_ , but she’d definitely rather drive than fly any day of the week.

"Huh," Sam shrugs. "Well, last time we were in Canada—was that when Dad and Caleb were hunting that Black Dog up in Montana, kept hopping the border?"

Dean snaps a finger and points. "Nah," he half-grins. "Padaleski. Vancouver."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, ok, _Soap Digest’s_ rising star."

The boys continue to banter about lord knows what, speaking in those half-formed sentences and references of people who spend far too much time together. The rumble of their voices mixes with that of the engine and the tires against the pavement, and Jody leans back in her seat, letting her mind wander. She’ll have to call in and let work know she’s taking a couple days off, maybe her deputy can cover that meeting with the city council about—

"You ok back there, Jody?" Dean asks.

She blinks, finally realizing that they’ve made it to the highway. "Just thinking. I’m fine."

"You cool with music?" he asks, a hand going out to the console. "I got _Houses of the Holy_ in there, but we can listen to something else."

"Dude, did you—?" Sam half-whispers, surprised.

"Shut up."

"Zeppelin’s good," Jody answers.

The tape picks up with the last few bars of "The Rain Song," which fade out to be replaced with the opening notes of… Jody listens for a moment, forcing her brain to supply her with the title. It’s been ages since she’s heard this album in full, and she’s always been crap at remembering the names of songs. It’s not until at least a full minute in that she remembers.

 _Many have I loved, and many times been bitten_  
_Many times I’ve gazed along the open road_

"Over The Hills and Far Away." Well, there aren’t many hills along this particular stretch of highway, but close enough.

 _Many times I’ve lied, and many times I’ve listened_  
_Many times I’ve wondered how much there is to know_

Maybe it’s the words, maybe it’s the lull of the drive, but Jody finds her mind drifting back into memories. Many times he’d lied, probably. She half smiles to herself, still amused even after all this time that Asa’d actually thought Fox Mulder would work on her.

 

_"You telling me no one’s called you out on that one?" Jody asked as they made their way across the cemetery to the closest of the graves that’d been desecrated the previous night. Third batch this month—too bad this was the first Jody was hearing of it, though, since the other two had been in towns in the neighboring county, and Sheriff Guthrie over there had never been one for sharing info, especially anything that might tarnish his reputation and crime rates._

_"Not yet," Asa replied with a sardonic grin behind his beard. "And you’re the first to catch me as a hunter."_

_"Lucky me." She paused, a good distance from the crime scene, away from the ears of techs and cops, and Asa stopped with her. "So what’re we dealing with?"_

_"Ghouls."_

_"Ghouls?"_

_"Yeah. They eat the dead. Nasty pieces of work. Been tracking this pack ‘cross the Dakotas."_

_"Great. How do we kill ‘em?"_

_Asa’s eyes glinted with amusement. "Never was one for cops, but I think you’re my kind of sheriff, Jody Mills."_

_Rolling her eyes, despite the traitorous corners of her lips that twitched up, she continued on to the mausoleum. Seriously. Give a man a gun and a (fake) badge and they think they can charm anyone…_

 

_The night she, Asa, and his friend, Bucky, had burned the ghouls, they’d waited until the flames burned down, leaving smoldering piles of ash on the rocky dirt. Jody wished she could say it’s the first time she’d helped dispose of a body out here. She wondered if Bobby ever came out this way, or had other places around Sioux Falls for this sort of thing, instead of just stashing the bodies around his salvage yard._

_Asa dropped Bucky off at the motel before driving Jody home, and Jody had pretended not to notice the knowing smile Bucky’d given his friend. Back in Asa’s Jeep, Jody squinted at the steadily rising sun just breaking the horizon. Thankfully, it was a Sunday, so she didn’t have to worry about making sure Alex didn’t sleep through her alarm and miss AP Bio again._

_"How’d you get into this?" she asked. Asa’s grip tightened on the wheel, and Jody immediately regretted the question. "Sorry. Shouldn’t pry."_

_"Nah, it’s fine. I was twelve, running around the woods—way too far from home on my own, but I was twelve, you know? What was the worst that could happen." He gave a wry grin. "Anyway, werewolf caught my scent."_

_Jody’s draw dropped. "You took out a werewolf when you were twelve?"_

_"No. Thought I was a goner. He had me up against a tree. Next thing I know, werewolf’s dead and this hunter’s standing there over the body. She saved my life." He paused for a moment, ostensibly to focus on the road signs. "Started hunting for her—like, pay it forward. Found out when I was older she died a few years after saving me, but…" He shrugged. "I guess it’s in her memory. Make her proud, let her know I didn’t forget what she did."_

_"Yeah," she replied, sincerely, though her thoughts were elsewhere, with other memories to fight and live for._

_"How about you?" Asa asked, looking over. Before Jody could muster up a response, unsure how to bring up that week, when she’d lost everything, again—not that she begrudged Asa the question; she had been the one to ask first—he had given her an out of sorts. "Wait. Sioux Falls. Lemme guess: Bobby Singer?"_

_Jody’s heart twinged. "You knew him?"_

_"Met him once, called him a few times. Everyone knew Bobby."_

_She huffed a laugh. "Well, that was the problem ‘round here. There I am with two guys trying to pull off the same bad FBI alias shtick as you, and they tell me to call their supervisor. ‘Cept their supervisor’s the cranky local nuisance I’d arrested a few times."_

_Asa chuckled. "Sounds like Bobby."_

_"Yeah. Sam and Dean were pretty surprised I knew—"_

_"Sam and Dean? Winchester?"_

_"Yeah?" Jody asked with probably more than a hint of defensiveness._

_Asa let out a breath. "N-nothing. Just. Wow. Winchesters. Aren’t they dead? A couple times over?"_

_"They’re alive, far as I know. Been a few months since I’ve seen them." Something cold settled in her gut. It had been a while since she’d heard from them… But Asa didn’t mean anything by it, right?_

_"Jesus. Winchesters," Asa remarked, almost to himself. Something crossed his face that Jody couldn’t quite decipher in the dawning light. "The stories they tell about those guys…" But he trailed off, then tried with more levity, "And I thought my wendigo story was good."_

_"Wendigo story?"_

_With a cocky smile and an amused light in his eyes, Asa launched into a story he’d clearly told so many times that it’d become a performance, a legend._

 

She finds herself smiling slightly against the knuckles of her hand, propped up by the elbow against the window. If she’d known then how many times she’d hear the wendigo story—get a few beers into the guys and they all have to perform, jumping into each other’s stories to add a detail here or a ribbing there, laughing in anticipation of the funny parts that they knew so well—she might have cut him off then.

No, she wouldn’t have.

God, she’d listen to that damn story every day, rather than this.

  

* * *

 

Dean was hoping to get farther before Baby needed a refill, but they hadn’t started with a full tank when they’d left Jody’s. It’s just as well, he thinks, since he hasn’t heard from Cas in a while and he figures he should probably take the opportunity during their pit stop to let the dude know they’ll be out of the country. Then again, for all Dean knows, Cas has decided that the marine research facilities in California just aren’t up to snuff for tracking down Lucifer at the bottom of the ocean but the ones in fucking Brazil are top notch. He could be anywhere.

Even though they’ve only been in the car for an hour and a half—which is practically like going around the block for the Winchesters—all three of them climb out of the Impala to stretch as soon as Dean throws her into park by a pump. The gas station/rest stop is actually not completely skeevy and looks fairly clean, and Jody says she’s going to find a ladies’ room. Dean watches her go, frowning to himself at Jody’s plastered-on smile. He sighs, tells Sam to fill ‘er up, and says he’s going to grab some road food.  

"Get me something that won’t give me a heart attack before I’m thirty-five," Sam calls after him. "And some waters!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves his brother off before entering the store.

But he doesn’t go for the food just yet, not wanting to juggle bags and bottles while on his phone. Instead, he makes his way to a forgotten corner of the store, in the aisle with wiper fluid and motor oil and the bare essentials of car maintenance to tide you over until you can get to a garage—definitely less popular than the rows of chips and candy bars, or the coolers of sodas and juice.

He’s not even sure why he’s holing himself up in this corner to call Cas. It’s just Cas. Not like Sam doesn’t know who he is or like Jody’s gonna care. Hell, if Jody didn’t have her own shit going on, then the worst that would happen is she’d want to talk to the guy who’s essentially responsible for a second teen showing up on her doorstep.

Then again, maybe it’s a good thing Jody’s distracted. Cas doesn’t need that guilt trip, even if Jody wouldn’t mean it like that. She’d probably be thrilled to talk to him and would invite him over for dinner.

(And now Dean’s picturing Cas’ reaction to an impromptu sex ed convo over chicken and mashed potatoes, and the look of absolute _horror_ on Claire’s face...and yeah, Dean’s making this happen ASAP.)

Anyway, from what Dean’s heard from the angel, road tripping with Crowley’s enough of a punishment right now.

He quickly thumbs through his contact list to find ‘Castiel’, but his hand pauses, hovering over the call icon. It lands instead on the messaging symbol, and their conversation thread pulls up.

> DEAN: Hey fyi gonna be in Canada with Sam and Jody for a couple days

He pauses, wondering if he should just leave it at that. Dude’s busy, right? No time for Dean’s shit, such as it is. _Dean_ doesn’t even have time for his own shit—Jody’s a tough chick, but losing a friend’s never easy and she’s been (understandably) off since she found out.

But, this isn’t about Dean. Cas is on this crusade to get rid of Lucifer because he feels like it’s his responsibility to clean up that mess—and yeah, ok, Cas might be the one who let Satan walk around in his skin, but as far as Dean’s concerned, they’re all to blame for that mess if you dig deep enough. And he’s pretty sure the only reason Cas said yes in the first place is because the guy felt like shit and that it was the only thing to do to be useful, and whose fault is it for letting Cas slip through the cracks like that?

The sickeningly familiar train of thought whirls around in his brain again and again before he swallows and types out another message. 

> DEAN: Howre things with you? You and Crowley kill each other yet?

He blinks, almost in surprise, when he gets a message notification practically right away; Cas isn’t always the most prompt replier. 

> CASTIEL: Crowley is unfortunately still alive. And angry no one told him you are alive.

Dean rolls his eyes. 

> DEAN: You didnt tell him?
> 
> CASTIEL: I assumed since you had not, that you didn’t want him to know. It wasn’t my place to tell.
> 
> DEAN: Tell him I’ll send him a xmas card this yr if it’ll shut him up
> 
> CASTIEL: If only. It would probably just make things worse.
> 
> CASTIEL: And why Canada? Are you on a case?
> 
> DEAN: No...hunter funeral
> 
> DEAN: Friend of Jodys
> 
> CASTIEL: Please offer my condolences.
> 
> DEAN: Will do

He’s halfway through typing out "miss you" when he backtracks, hating how much of a chick it makes him sound like. Story of his fucking life these days. First it’s asking Mom permission to even call her that, now it’s bugging Cas whenever the stupidest little things come up or he just wants to say hi and chat.

 _Christ. Get a grip, Winchester._   

> DEAN: Lemme know if you find anything on luci
> 
> CASTIEL: I will. Take care. :)

Fucking emoticons. Or emojis. Whatever they’re called. Dean still doesn’t get the difference. He taps out of the conversation thread, which brings him back to the contact info. For some reason, the name ‘Castiel’ just looks wrong, especially for a dude who ends his messages with freaking smiley faces. It’s about time he changed it.

Of course, he screws it up right off the bat and accidentally deletes the whole name instead of just the last four letters.

C-a-

"Hey, Dean, whatcha doing?" Jody’s voice says over the top of the nearest shelf, and Dean nearly drops his phone.

"Ah, nothing, just getting snacks," he answers, hastily turning his screen off and shoving the phone in his pocket—not before noticing that he’s somehow ended up with an extra ‘s’ in the name that he’ll have to fix later. He rubs the back of his neck, not entirely sure why he’s so on edge.

Jody raises an eyebrow, surveying the shelves behind Dean. "So, Pennzoil? I mean, I’m more of a Quaker State girl, myself. Richer taste, smoother finish, in my opinion, but…" She smiles, and Dean returns it, taking the out.

"Well, always keep a thing of oil in the trunk, just in case," Dean shrugs. "But I think I can get it cheaper back home."

"Bargain shopper. I gotcha," Jody nods with a wink. "C’mon. Let’s get Sam some granola bars or whatever before he gets fed up and leaves without us."

"He wouldn’t take Baby. Not unless he has a deathwish."

Unfortunately, the words hit a little too close to home, but they both pretend they didn’t and grab some waters from the cooler, Sam’s fruity organic granola bars (that are way too expensive for compressed cardboard, in Dean’s humble opinion, but no one asked him), and some trail mix—it’s got M&Ms in it, so Dean can justify stealing some without ruining his reputation.  

"How’re you holding up?" Dean asks as they wait in line behind a family with a truckload of kids under the age of ten who have decided that the most efficient way of checking out is for each kid to bring up their treat and drink to the counter individually, like it’s a tribute to the Cashier Gods.

Jody shrugs. "Ok, I guess." Her eyes are bright, and not in a good way, but she gives a tight smile. "I’ll miss him. He wasn’t around much, but…"

Dean nods, then with the hand not clutching bottles, he wraps an arm around her in a side-hug, rubbing his thumb along the top of her shoulder. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

Jody wipes a hand under an eye just as the family leaves, and Dean lets his hand fall as they walk up to the counter.

"So, how about you?" she asks as they make their way out of the building and back to the car, where Sam is half-sitting on the hood, one knee crooked up; Dean shoots his brother a glare—if there are scratches in the paint… Sam just rolls his eyes and stands up.

"Me?" Dean responds to Jody. Her expression is open, as though she knows there’s more to whatever story he plans on giving her and she’ll listen if he wants. But this isn’t the time or place. "I’m good. We’re good. Here, Sammy," he adds, shoving the plastic bag in his brother’s direction.

"No beef jerky?" Sam remarks, inspecting the contents. "You feeling ok, Dean?"

"Peachy, asshole. C’mon, let’s go."

Once they’re all settled in and there aren’t any rogue Gigantor limbs still hanging out the passenger door, Dean takes off again, pulling down the visor to cut some of the glare of the lowering sun.

"Hey, Jody," he says, looking in the rearview mirror. "I tell you about how I killed Hitler?"

Beside him, Sam groans, but Dean doesn’t care.

This story’s _never_ getting old.

 

* * *

  

Maybe if he hadn’t heard it five thousand times already, or hadn’t, ya know, _been_ there, Sam would be more impressed with Dean’s Hitler-killing story. But the fact of the matter is, he _was_ there and he _has_ heard it so. many. times. And, ever since, Dean’s been pulling the "I killed Hitler" card as an excuse for _everything_ : "Sammy, get the guy who killed Hitler a beer while you’re up!" or "I killed Hitler, Sam, I think I can figure out how kill a computer virus." "Well, maybe the guy who killed Hitler should figure out how to not go on virusy porn sites…" "Hey, show some respect. And you’re welcome, by the way."

Basically, his brother’s been making his life a living Hell, and Sam’s been to Hell.

This is worse.

He does feel a little guilty that he doesn’t try and bail Jody out, but 1) maybe if Dean gets it out of his system, he won’t bug Sam anymore (unlikely, but he’s got to try), 2) Jody seems mildly interested, and 3) Jody probably needs a distraction. He remembers Dean telling dumb story after dumb story when Jess died, and in a weird way, it kind of helped. Doesn’t matter how many people you lose, it never gets easier, and even though distractions don’t solve anything, at least they make the pain a little more manageable for awhile.

"So, come to find out, these Thule guys were trying to resurrect him and start the Fourth Reich or some shit—" Dean’s saying when Sam tunes back in from his contemplations of the North Dakota landscape (which is only slightly more interesting, than, say, Nebraska...as in, not that interesting at all—lots of nothing, and it’s a nothing he’s seen more times than he can count).

"Thule?" Jody asks, and in the passenger side mirror, Sam sees her grimace with regret for asking a question, a grimace that she schools quickly into interest when her eyes flick in Dean’s direction.

"Oh, yeah, the Thule!" Dean’s voice perks up at the new story thread. "Ok, backtrack. What was it, three years ago, Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam startles, then asks, once his brain has processed the question, "Three years ago what?"

"Aaron. The golem?"

Sam bites his tongue from making a ‘your gay thing’ crack about Aaron because he doesn’t want to open that can of worms today (he still isn’t 100% sure what went down between those two), and instead just does some quick mental calendar math. "Yeah. We just got the Bunker."

"Right," Dean nods. "So the Thule…"

Sam stops paying attention again as Dean launches into retelling the golem case, and instead pulls out his phone, thinking he can check his email or maybe read a little when he notices a text notification from about twenty minutes ago—probably when they went over that grooved pavement a ways back so he never felt his phone vibrate. Opening up the app, he tries to curtail his smile, lest his nosy brother start asking questions.  

> EILEEN: Hey :) You free?
> 
> SAM: For Facetime, unfortunately no (in the car with Dean and a friend)
> 
> SAM: But, texting? Yes! (and seriously, perfect timing...Dean’s retelling his Hitler story. Again.)
> 
> EILEEN: Damn… :(
> 
> EILEEN: And a friend? The angel you mentioned? Castiel right?
> 
> SAM: No, he’s off on a mission. Different friend...she’s a sheriff and a hunter: Jody Mills
> 
> SAM: I should give you her info in case you ever have a hunt out her way in Sioux Falls
> 
> SAM: I know you prefer to work alone but…
> 
> EILEEN: No, that’d be great. Never a bad thing to have an in with a sheriff
> 
> SAM: No kidding. Every time we call she’s always wondering if she’s going to have to bail us out of jail

"Who’re ya texting, Sammy?" Dean’s voice cuts in, and Sam looks up in surprise.

"Uh, no one," he says. So sue him for wanting to keep this to himself for a little bit. "Just reading."

Dean just side-eyes him while simultaneously passing the kind of rusted-to-hell pickup truck that’s a dime a dozen around here. "Lot of typing for _just reading_."

Sighing, Sam pulls up an app (which is really just his Kindle app, but Sam’s banking on Dean not looking too hard as he drives). "No, I’m reading this article on 3rd century Zoroastrianism during the Sasanian dynasty—" (not a complete lie: he had stumbled across the topic last week when he was perusing the Bunker’s books) "—and the app lets you annotate and highlight as you go. And, they just updated it so it syncs back to your other devices and catalogues all your notes for you. And this article’s actually really interesting—"

Dean cocks an eyebrow, then rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Sam. You need to get out more. Find a nice girl or something."

"Whatever," Sam says, privately enjoying the irony for a moment.

"Be nice to your brother, Dean," Jody chimes in from the back with what Sam knows isn’t her true ‘mom voice’ because it’s a hell of a lot more amused than what he’s heard used around Claire and Alex.

"I’m always nice. I’m a fucking paragon of nice."

"Uh huh," Jody snorts.

The conversation trails off or a moment before Dean clears his throat. "So, anyway, as I was saying," he jerks a thumb in Sam’s direction, "lore-boy over here tries to convince this girl that it’s not the end of the world that she’s related to Hitler and that they want to use her to bring him back…"

Sam frowns at the memory of that conversation with Ellie. It had certainly brought up some stuff, as had his talk with poor Magda. He wonders how the girl is doing with her aunt. Maybe he should contact her, or at least that social worker, see how she’s doing…

The blinking notification light on his phone, though, reminds him that he still has an unread text from Eileen. 

> EILEEN: Trick is to not get caught in the first place ;)
> 
> SAM: You ever been caught?
> 
> EILEEN: Clean record
> 
> SAM: Yeah...we’ve been on the FBI Most Wanted a few times…
> 
> SAM: Also, prison food sucks, in case you were wondering
> 
> EILEEN: I wasn’t, but thanks for the heads up
> 
> SAM: No problem
> 
> SAM: What’ve you been up to anyway?
> 
> EILEEN: The usual. Came across an alkonost last week
> 
> SAM: An alkonost? Like, a Russian siren? Aren’t those rare in the US?
> 
> EILEEN: Yep. Town with big Russian pop in WA
> 
> SAM: Gotcha. How’d it go?
> 
> EILEEN: Cakewalk. They actually use their voices to lure people in, so…
> 
> EILEEN: Perfect case for me :)
> 
> SAM: Nice!
> 
> EILEEN: Thanks! Anyway I gotta go but if you get a chance later tonight, chat?
> 
> SAM: Yeah...can practice my ASL
> 
> EILEEN: You betcha. I can tell you more about the case, too
> 
> SAM: Definitely. Sounds really interesting!
> 
> EILEEN: :D

Sam clicks his screen off and turns in his seat so he can see Jody better. He supposes it’s about time he rescues the sheriff from his brother. 


	2. Burned in Canada

_Stop me if I should sound kinda down in the mouth_  
_But I'd rather be burned in Canada than freeze here in the South  
_

 

 

"We’re very sorry for your loss."

Lorraine gives Sam a look and a sigh. "I know. Everyone’s sorry." She leaves, gripping her glass maybe a little tighter than before, and Jody fights back the memories of another wake, a coffin that was just so small…

"So, this is gonna be fun," she declares, shrugging out of her jacket.

She doesn’t look back to see if Sam and Dean follow. They’re big boys. They can handle themselves. And right now, there’s something she needs to do. Alone.

She’s been here only twice before, and only briefly both times. Just enough to grab a shower and a change of clothes, maybe a sandwich. The place is huge, and she knows she’s only seen a fraction of it, but she knows the way to the parlor well enough, if only because it’s not far from the first floor bathroom.

The body—because she still can’t process that it’s _Asa_ , even though she’s seen more dead bodies than she could ever want in her time—is on the table, covered in a rough, greyish blanket. She sniffs once, swallows, and walks with her shoulders back towards the table. Hesitantly, her fingers graze the arm before landing a little more firmly on the shoulder. She lifts the blanket off his face. He’s pale and still and her hand hovers near the side of his face for a moment until it drops back to her side.

"Hey, Asa," she chokes out in a whisper. "I—"

 _Asa’s just a guy_ , she’d told Sam and Dean. Just a guy who’d made her smile, who’d understood and accepted the weirdness of her life—hunting and semi-illegally adopting two teenagers aren’t exactly good first date conversation starters with civilians. Just a guy who’d been so _good_. And she knew it could never last, be permanent—Asa loved being on the road too much—but in those quiet moments, she’d think, _what if?_    

She wonders how the girls would have taken _that._ Then again, they’re pretty much out of the house by now, what with Alex at nursing school and Claire pretending she’s on board with the go-to-college gameplan. They’d liked Asa the one time they met him, probably because he hadn’t tried to pull a parent card on them. Alex and Claire had just shared somewhat amused (and faintly horrified, because Jody’s _old_ in their eyes) looks; Alex had given the situation a resounding, "He seems alright," while Claire had snorted and muttered something to the effect of, "He’s like Dean without the bad dad jokes."

And Jody’s just going to pretend that that comparison was never made because as aesthetically pleasing as Dean may be, objectively speaking, he is firmly in family/friend never-gonna-happen territory.

Asa’s there, and he doesn’t move, and Jody wants to say _something_ , knows she’s supposed to have something profound or heartfelt or whathaveyou. But there’s nothing. Nothing that words can express, or maybe it’s that she’s been down this path before and she gave it all away then.

Besides, who is—was—she to Asa, anyway?   

She scowls to herself, fixes a lock of hair on his head that had been displaced when she’d lifted the blanket, and gently covers him again. This isn’t about her. This is about Asa and his loved ones, his family.

 

  


 

Bucky’s voice, probably telling some story, drifts in from the other room, and then there’s cheers and the sound of clinking bottles. Lord knows what drinking game they’ve come up with.

Hearing footsteps approach, she retreats to the back hallway. There’s a door open about halfway down on her left, and she nearly passes right by before noticing Lorraine. The older woman is sitting in a small office in a worn leather armchair. The drink she’d had in hand when they arrived is practically empty. Her glasses are on top of her head, and when she looks up, Jody can see just how red her eyes are.

"Come to hide, too?" Lorraine asks. "’Fraid the liquor reserves are a little dry in here, though."

"Want me to get you another one?"

Lorraine studies the glass in her hand. "Yes, but...better not. Sit?"

It’s half-command, half-question, but Jody obeys instantly, perching on a rickety wooden desk chair.

"Think it gets any easier?"

Jody studies her hands. "It doesn’t."

Lorraine peers at her, obviously surprised by the quiet authority in her voice on the matter. "I didn’t know."

"It was a long time ago," Jody says, even though her heart cries and insists it wasn’t long ago at all.

"How old?"

"Seven. Almost eight." Two months. He’d already asked if he could take a friend to the zoo, if he was feeling up to it. Of course she and Sean had agreed...

"I’m sorry."

The corner of Jody’s mouth quirks up. "Everyone’s sorry."

Lorraine snorts, then toasts with her glass. "Touché." There’s maybe a drop left, but she drinks it anyway. "Those boys you came with. Friends of Asa’s?"

Jody shakes her head. "Never met him. Heard of him, though. They came for me."

Sliding her glasses back down over her eyes, Lorraine nods. "Sound like good people."

"They are."

They sit together, quiet, but not entirely uncomfortably so, for a moment or two.

"Well," Lorraine sighs at last, getting back to her feet. "I suppose I should be social. Or at least make sure no one’s broken anything yet."

Jody watches her go, then gets up herself and begins making her way to the kitchen. Bucky’s probably got a tub of his homebrew kicking around. Not her favorite, but it’ll do. Lost in her own thoughts, she bumps right into Elvis Katz, practically knocking him over.

"Oh, hey Jody," Elvis says, smoothing down his bright red shirt.

She fights not to roll her eyes. "Hi, Elvis."

Elvis, being fucking Elvis, plants a hand on one wall, effectively blocking Jody’s path. Except he’s like a twig and she could snap him in half if she wanted. Honestly, though, he’s not worth the effort.

"Real shame about Asa, huh?" He takes a sip of his beer.

"Yeah. That would be the point of a wake."

And Elvis, again being fucking Elvis, who would miss social cues on giant neon signs, continues, "So, I know you and Asa were _close_ , and I just want to say as a friend, if you need _anything_ —" Jody tries not to shudder visibly; she’s not sure she succeeds. "—I’m here for you. You know?"

"Thanks for the offer," she says. "But you’re in the way of me getting a beer."   

Elvis’ eyes flick in the general direction of upstairs. "This place sure does have a lot of rooms…"

"Always were an observant one, Elvis," Jody deadpans, pushing past him. "And in case you weren’t getting the hint: no."

"Yeah, sure," he calls to her back. "Catch ya later, Jody."

"You wish," she mutters under her breath.

It’s gonna be a long night.

 

* * *

 

"Um, I’m gonna get a—a beer. Yeah. You good? Yeah? Good."

Sam gets up and makes his way in the direction of the kitchen, but takes a quick detour to the hallway just to collect his thoughts first. _No wonder Dad had said these things were a bad idea_ , he thinks to himself as he leans against a dark-paneled wall. Max and Alicia seem interesting, and god knows it’d be nice to have someone other than Rowena to rely on for magic, and sure, they’d seemed more bothered by Elvis’ prying than Sam’s history…

But still.

 _Something that messed up_ , Alicia had called it.

Sounds about right.

Guess it doesn’t matter, huh? He’ll always be the Boy with the Demon Blood. The Guy Who Let Out Satan (the first time, at least; and yeah, he’s been trying really hard not to be upset with Cas, and rationally, he knows and understands why Cas did what he did, but that didn’t make seeing Lucifer walk around in his friend any easier, and that doesn’t keep him from waking up in a cold sweat at the thought of Lucifer still being out there, somewhere).

Still leaning against the wall, he takes a deep breath while one hand closes his eyes and pinches just at the bridge of his nose. The other hand is shoved into his pocket, and his thumb rubs against the smooth plastic of his phone case. He’s tempted to text Eileen, just to talk to someone removed from all this but who would still understand.

"Catch ya later, Jody," he hears a voice call from around the corner. Sam’s not certain, but the voice sounds like it could be Elvis’.

The sheriff herself appears a second later, muttering what Sam thinks is, "You wish." She brightens, however, when she sees Sam.

"I wouldn’t go that way," she warns, jerking her head back in the direction she came.

"Elvis?"

She snorts. "Already got your fill, huh? Although, and I could be wrong, but I bet he didn’t try to hit on you."

"Uh," Sam half-smiles, half-grimaces. "No, not quite." At least, he hopes not. He’s heard some bad pickup lines in his day (generally from Dean to the waitress of the week), but if that’s what Elvis was going for... "He, uh, he wanted to talk about hunting stories."

Jody rolls her eyes. "Don’t listen to anything he says. Pretty sure he wouldn’t know a demon if it came up and bit him in the ass."

"I’ll remember that," Sam says. "Hey, uh, you ok?"

"What, ‘cause of Elvis?" Her eyebrow rises. "Don’t worry, I can take care of myself."

"I know, but," he shrugs.

"You’re a good guy, Sam," she says, patting his arm, and for half a second, he almost believes it. "Anyway, I dunno about you, but there’s a beer somewhere in this house that’s calling my name."

He nods and pushes himself up from the wall to follow Jody into the kitchen. A guy with a reddish beard that Jody calls Bucky gives her a booming hello and a hug, which Jody accepts openly. In seconds, Jody’s got an unlabeled beer pressed into her hand while Bucky pops the cap with the opener around his neck, and Sam’s also being handed a dark bottle.

"So, I’m guessing you’re Sam Winchester," Bucky says with a nod. The other hunters in the room look at him, expectantly, and he wonders if he’s in for another round of questioning.

"Uh, yeah. That’s, uh, that’s me." He takes a sip of beer. It’s strong, but not bad.

Jody moves off to talk with a couple in their mid-fifties that Sam doesn’t recognize. Sam’s about to go over and see if he can join in that conversation when a man with dark hair sitting at the table introduces himself as Randy Bull, complete with making his hands into horns (and seriously, how much do you have to hate your kid to name him Randy Bull?). But before Randy can get a word in edgewise, Bucky cuts in.

"Sorry if you got hit with Elvis right off the bat. He’s, uh, he’s a character." Bucky shakes his head.

"Something like that," Sam agrees, with a relieved laugh that clearly they’re not _all_ like Elvis.

"He’s probably got a shrine to you somewhere," Randy chimes in, and Sam nearly chokes on his beer. "Don’t let it go to your head, though. He pretty much hero-worshiped Asa, too. Ya know, ‘cause of the stories."

Everyone in the room seems to wait for Sam to say something in particular, but he’s got no idea what.

"Oh, right. The stories," he nods. Bucky looks like he’s about to follow up with a question, but Sam asks hurriedly, "Have you guys seen Dean? I just need to, uh, ask him…"

"Yeah, he was in here a minute ago," Bucky answers. For whatever reason, everyone else in the room seems to deflate a little; apparently Sam didn’t give the answer he was supposed to. "Went that way," he continues, pointing one finger around his beer bottle in the direction of the east side of the house, away from the kitchen and living room.

"Great, thanks."

And as fast as his long legs can carry him, he books it out of the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

After leaving the kitchen, Dean’d almost gone to check out the living room situation, but instead, he’d decided to go exploring a little. Five wendigos in one night is certainly the stuff of legends, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little curious about a guy whose name was known around the Roadhouse but who grew up in a mansion of a place like this.

More by accident than by anything else, he ends up in a library/study type room. This room would had made Bobby smile (or at least, his beard would twitch up suspiciously): books stacked everywhere, newspaper clippings from various cases tacked to the wall, random odds and ends from knives to jars of various nasty things to amulets and charms. Standing by a side table, he spots a black leather cord with an iron pendant in the shape of a protection sigil—Korean, he’s pretty sure. He replaces it on top of the stack of books it’d been resting on at first, then moves it to a clear corner of the table so he can inspect the texts.

A few he recognizes as ones they have copies of in the Bunker or from Bobby’s personal library. Others, he can decipher enough of the titles—mostly in Latin or Greek (languages aren’t really his thing, not like they are Sam’s, but he can muddle through)—to know that Bobby would’ve given an arm and a leg to get his hands on them. He flips through one stack, the dust nearly making him sneeze. A book of magic with grotesque engravings of what the spells presumably do to their victims, another in French on werewolves and rugarus, a third on spirits from various African cultures.

Huh. Maybe Asa’s wendigo story wasn’t all talk.

For some reason, his perusal of the books conjures up a long forgotten memory of that school they went to in New Hampshire during his junior year, memorable only because his English teacher there had been fresh out of college, and so sue him, he’d been a horny seventeen-year-old and she’d definitely been worthy of paying attention to. Granted, he may have been more focused on the way Ms. Carter would bite her bottom lip when she was thinking, than the actual content of the class. But, he does remember one lesson—she’d been wearing _that_ pink cardigan—and her talking about the symbolism of some guy with glasses being amazed that the books were real at this rich dude’s house.

He frowns, trying to remember what book it was from. _Catcher?_ No, that was the whiny prep school kid. He knows it wasn’t _Streetcar—_ that was definitely Brando, and he’d read it at that school in Iowa. _Gatsby_ , he realizes, snapping a finger to himself. Green light. Asshole rich people. Spiderman and DiCaprio. (Well, that last part was much later than when he was in school, but the point still stands.)

There was probably a rhyme and reason to the book stacks that made sense to Asa, but Asa’s not here, and so Dean just piles them back up on the table. Turning, something glints and catches his eye: an angel blade in a case.

It’s strange, seeing an angel blade so revered like this, considering they’ve got a couple just tossed in the trunk and his best friend— _family_ —is an angel. Hell, God’s made them pancakes and walked around in his bathrobe. (And it may be petty, but Dean’s still annoyed by that. Couldn’t _God_ have gotten his own damn bathrobe?)

Gently, he opens up the case and picks up the blade to inspect it. He should really call Cas, he thinks: check in on him, see if he and Crowley are BFFs yet or are at each other's throats.

"Hey," Sam’s voice says from behind him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Oh, hey." Dean shows Sam the weapon. "This is a real angel blade. I mean, this guy was legit."

But Sam breezes right past that. "Did you know people tell stories about us?"

Yeah, he does, and he really doesn’t want to know what stories they tell. But he brushes it off as best he can, tries to give the old party line that going out young during a hunt is how it’s going to end, no better way to go. Well, "no better" might not be the best descriptor. "Most likely" is probably more appropriate.

He’s not sure he feels it, though, in his bones. _Something more_ , he’d once said, back when he’d thought the Mark would consume him until there was nothing left worth saving.

Of course, he’d also always thought he’d want nothing more than having his mom back, and look how that’d turned out.

Maybe it’s stupid to want more, to think he deserves a happy ending.

It always just goes to Hell anyway.

But what can he say? He’s a fucking optimist.


	3. Holding Something

 

_It seems to me we've been holding something_  
_Underneath our tongues_  
_I'm afraid if you ever got a pat on the back_  
_It would likely burst your lungs_

 

 

"And Asa made us go roller-skating," Bucky says, looking around the group, seemingly making eye contact with everyone, drawing them in, but never actually looking anyone straight on. Jody half-smiles, her chin propped up on her palm. "And right after these ghouls almost got us…"

Bucky’s voice continues on, but Jody’s mind wanders back. She can still see it clearly: the tear in Asa’s shirt where one of the ghouls had grabbed at him, the blood and dirt under her nails from tracking the pack down to the edges of the woods and back into civilization—well, near enough to civilization…

 

_Luckily for them, the back corner of the parking lot was empty, and so no one had seen them. A single orange light from the top of the roller rink had half-illuminated the lot near the building, and the heavy bass of whatever music they were playing was almost in-tune with the flickering neon sign near the road. The law offices in a converted house next door were long closed by this time of night, and the tailor/dry cleaners across the street was similarly dark. Even more luckily, no teenagers had decided to take advantage of the dark behind the roller rink._

_Bucky wiped his forehead with a broad forearm, and in the dimness, Jody was pretty sure he’d accomplished nothing more than streaking dirt across his brow. Asa bent over and wiped his machete on the jacket of a decapitated ghoul in the form of one Mrs. Wong. Her head was about five feet away, near the body in the form of her husband. Jody wasn’t quite positive where the husband's head ended up, but she suspected it may have landed in the scrubby bushes nearby._

_"What’re we gonna do with the bodies?" Bucky asked._

_"Burn ‘em?" Jody suggested._

_Asa nodded. "Yeah, yeah, definitely." He eyed the roller rink, then the area around them. "Not now, though."_

_Bucky frowned, but Jody caught his drift immediately. "Think it closes at midnight," she said, then turned to Bucky. "Should be clear then. No one’ll notice the flames. ‘Less you wanna sit with the ghouls in the back of the Jeep and drive ‘em somewhere else."_

_Bucky snorted. "I’ll pass." He chucked Asa on the arm. "Bad enough riding around with him as it is."_

_"You love it," Asa retorted with a grin. "C’mon."_

_Without another word, they dragged the bodies further into the treeline, covering them as best they could with branches. Not a permanent solution, but hopefully enough in case some truly random passersby (read: naughty teenagers…) happened to be out here this late at night._

_Wiping dirt from his hands, Asa checked his watch. "Ok, so we’ve got...an hour or so until this place closes up."_

_"Beers?" Bucky shrugged. "Probably a bar somewhere around here…"_

_Jody nearly agreed with that plan, but Asa shook his head. Even in the faint orange light, his eyes brightened. "Nah, got a better idea."_

_Bucky and Jody glanced at each other for a moment._

_"And that would be…?" Jody asked._

_Asa grinned. "How’re your skating moves, Ms. Mills?"_

_"Oh, I’m sure I could skate circles around you, Mr. Fox." A total lie: Jody was terrible on skates and couldn’t remember the last time she risked her ankles to such nonsense. But what the hell. If nothing else, the pictures would embarrass the hell out of the girls, and sometimes, that was its own reward._

_"Now that’s something I want to see," Asa said._

_Meanwhile, Bucky ruined the moment by groaning loudly._

_"Yeah, alright, you two. Quit mooning over each other. Let’s go," he said, surprisingly into the idea of roller skating, in Jody’s opinion._

_Smirking, Asa started to make his way towards the building._

_Jody patted Bucky on the arm as she passed. "Aw c’mon, don’t be jealous," she teased. "Let’s see how brave Bucky does on wheels."_

 

"...a ton of ironic teenagers skating under these neon lights. You remember this, Jody?" Bucky is saying, the back of his hand tapping her shoulder as he walks behind her, gesturing expansively. It brings Jody back to the present and she nods.

"Mmhm," she agrees.

"Oh, it was classic," Bucky continues. "I mean, you know, until the two of you snuck off for some sweet, sweet time alone."

Oh, she’s gonna kill Bucky for that one.

Especially now that she’s somehow explaining her relationship with Asa to his mother and now Sam and Dean, and she’s not entirely sure if she should be insulted or not by Dean’s comment that they don’t think of her that way (to be fair, she doesn’t exactly want to think of either of _them_ that way, but still).

"Come on in. Don’t hover," Lorraine calls in the direction of the front door, and Jody realizes she must have missed the sounds of someone entering.

"Sorry, I knocked. Door was open," a blonde woman says, but that’s not what interests Jody.

No, what interests her is how automatically the boys stiffen, how Dean chokes out a ‘Hi’ while Sam constantly looks between the woman and Dean, gauging his reaction to fit his brother’s. Whoever she is, she’s trouble for Sam and Dean, as far as Jody’s concerned. Maybe not dangerous—it’s not like the boys have pulled out knives—but there’s definitely something going on here.

She follows them out into the foyer and then finds herself being introduced to a woman who, as far as she knew, _died_ over thirty years ago. And this woman does _not_ look old enough to be their mother.

"Wow," she stammers out—twice, because apparently she’s a master wordsmith—and then envelops the woman in a hug. "It is so nice to meet you!"

Mary is stiff and surprised, but whatever. Jody just met Sam and Dean’s _mom_ , the woman that even Jody knows has been the core of their family memories. Sam and Dean must be _thrilled_ —

Except, when she releases Mary and looks back at them, they’re clearly not, and holy awkward tension, Batman.  

She stumbles out an excuse of giving them some time as a family, then heads back towards the room with the others. But she doesn’t go in. One hand over her mouth, she paces in the hallway just outside the door, but out of sight. Should she go back, make sure Sam and Dean are ok? Should she explain things to the others? Is it even her place?

A single set of footsteps come in her direction, and judging from the gait, she’s guessing it’s Dean. She corners him by the front door, which he’s clearly trying to stalk out through, but she can’t just let him storm off without her knowing he’s (relatively) ok and without him knowing he’s got someone watching his back.

Besides, it’s not like she can’t relate to the situation.

At first she’s not sure how much gets through to him. But then she admits that it would scare the hell out of her if her family came back, and the defenses crack.

"Yeah?" he asks, and Jody’s not sure she’s ever heard his voice sound so small.

 _Yes, Dean. You’re not alone in this. You never were. And Christ, maybe I don’t have to be alone in this either_ , she thinks. Because it’s not like anyone in Sioux Falls ever _talked_ about that week. Everyone just went on with their lives like it was all a bad dream, tra la la nothing to see here. Bobby got it, but he wasn’t exactly a Chatty Cathy. A single nod of solidarity when they’d run into each other in town was mostly it for awhile. And then, well…

She offers Dean an ear, whenever he wants, about whatever he wants, and he thanks her with far more sincerity than his usual gruffness would let the casual observer think is possible. But she’s no casual observer and she gets Dean: she never knew the boys’ real father, but she’s pretty sure it’s Bobby that Dean takes after, in more ways than one.

She lets him go at last, heading back into the living room and passing Lorraine as she goes. Everyone looks up at her, a thousand questions on their faces.

"Who is she?" Elvis asks, and from the couch, the twins share a look.

"Dude, c’mon," Max sighs. "Give ‘em some space."

"You ok, Jody?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah, I’m fine," she nods. "She’s, uh…"

Thankfully, she’s spared from explaining by Sam walking into the room.

"She’s our mom," he says, running a hand through his hair.

Apparently, the Winchester name is known well enough that the thousand questions multiply instantly, but no one is tactless enough to voice them.

Well, except Elvis, who practically lights up like a Christmas tree.

"Don’t even think about it," Max warns him, and Jody sends him a silent _thank you_. "Sam, I think you need a drink."

"Uh, yeah, I—I think you’re right."

Sam turns to leave the same way he came, and Jody’s just a step behind. She manages to give him an abbreviated version of what she’d said to Dean, but Sam is either handling it better than Dean or is just better at hiding it. She gives him a hug and lets him retreat.

"What a night," Jody exhales, sinking into a chair.

The room’s quiet for a minute, and then Bucky says, "You guys hear about the time Asa’s Jeep got possessed by a ghost?"

Jody hasn’t, but she also finds she doesn’t really care. She just lets Bucky’s voice slip into the background as a riot of thoughts and feelings swirl in her head.

_What a night, indeed._

 

* * *

 

 

"So you’ll text us once a week, maybe, but you’ll drive all the way to Canada to see some dead guy?" Dean asks, the bitterness practically radiating off him. Sam doesn’t exactly disagree with the sentiment, but he doesn’t see how this is going to make anything better, either. "Well, that’s awesome. I’m gonna get some air."

Sam’s shoulders fall in resignation as his brother storms off, and he puts a hand on his mom’s shoulder as she tries to go after him.

"I’m sorry," he says, on behalf of Dean. "He’s just—"

But his mom doesn’t give him a chance to explain or apologize or anything. No, she moves away from his hand, sighs, and leaves him alone in the foyer.

 _It’s ok_ , he tells himself. _They’re just upset, need a minute to think._

But no matter how many times he tries to convince himself that it’s not personal, he can’t quite do it.

She and Dean have history, and god does Sam know how tangled up Dean gets when it comes to family. By comparison, Mom’s always been a big blank space to Sam, half-filled in with other people’s memories. Mom’s always been an idea, never a real person. He can’t expect her to understand it all, and he knows how hard it is in this family to try and go out and figure things out for yourself. And of course Mom’s going to be more worried about Dean’s reaction than his right now: Dean’s the one who’s pushing back, and it’s not that he _blames_ Dean, but his brother’s gotta understand that she’s overwhelmed and needs to do her own thing, right? That she’s not doing this to be mean or because she doesn’t care?

Right?

Eventually, he unsticks his feet from the floor and returns to the living room to find Jody stumbling over an explanation as to who the newcomer is. He rips the bandaid off and announces that it’s his mom, and obviously that’s another story that gets passed around hunter circles because everyone looks shocked, and fucking Elvis looks like he’s about to burst with questions. Max saves him, again, however, by nipping that in the bud and suggesting Sam go get a drink.

And Sam thinks that’s a fine idea.

He steps back out of the room and Jody follows him a few feet.

"Hey," she says. "I dunno what’s going on, but I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Dean: I’m always here if you want to talk."

Sam hopes his brother didn’t just brush her off or make some crack about chick-flick moments.

"Thanks, Jody," he replies. "I’m ok. They just need to go to their corners for a bit, you know? But, I’ll-I’ll remember that."

"Uh huh," she nods, but Sam doesn’t think she’s entirely convinced. He gives her his best _I’m fine_ smile, and she rolls her eyes. "C’mere."

She has to reach up on her tiptoes to get her arms around his shoulders, and he leans down to accept the hug.

"Thanks," he says again.

"Nah, this is for me," she jokes before letting go. Stepping back, she nods her head in the direction of the kitchen. "Go on, get a drink. You’ll feel better. And don’t tell Claire and Alex that was my advice to you."

He smiles. "I won’t."

He’s feeling better as he walks away, but when he runs into his mom again and she shoves a box of postcards at him, his stomach drops.

"I’m fine," she tells him, but Sam grew up speaking Winchester and ‘fine’ has never meant ‘fine.’

But he understands, and he tells her that. She seems to listen, seems grateful that someone doesn’t judge or question (even when he slips for a moment, before regaining his footing, saying he gets why she kept hunting, even with an infant at home, even if he can’t help but feel a little betrayed on Dean’s behalf, and weirdly, on their father’s behalf, and even maybe a little on his own).

"Come on," he says at last.

"Where are we going?"

"To say goodbye to Asa."

It’s almost peaceful in the parlor. He didn’t know Asa, and he’s never been to a hunter’s wake. They always burn the body as fast as they can, no wake, no ceremony beyond maybe pouring out a drink into the dirt. He wonders if, some day, when he dies, anyone will lay his body out, if anyone will come to mourn, or if it will be quick onto the pyre, maybe a few words said by whomever is left.

His mother takes a deep breath and steels herself after uncovering Asa’s face.

And then the blood drips...from the ceiling....onto Asa’s forehead.

 _No, not again_ …

No flames, not this time.

But it doesn’t matter: Sam can still feel the ghost of heat as he and Mary run to alert the others.

 

* * *

 

The air is a few degrees cooler than it probably would be back home, with enough autumn chill to bite at his lungs as Dean takes in a deep breath. Dry leaves crunch under foot on the brown brick driveway. Sam had always liked the fall when they were kids: school started up again, new clothes (well, new to them at least), new friends... That had lasted until he was about nine or ten and some of the shine had rubbed off of their life. Dean’d tried, _Christ_ he’d tried, to keep Sam from that, but it was inevitable. For Dean, fall had just been one more way to mark time, one more pit stop until he could get out of school and help his dad hunt down the thing that had killed Mom.

What a joke, right?

‘Cept nobody’s laughing.

He toes a rock and pulls out his flask. The swig burns, but the flash of warmth feels good against the chill of the night.

Jesus. Mom’d known Asa, saved him apparently, when he was just a kid.

But she couldn’t ward Sammy’s nursery? Couldn’t save her own kids?

And when did she go off on the hunt she’d saved him on anyway, huh? Dad must have been in the picture. Were he and Sam?

No wonder their marriage was only perfect after she died. The story became the story. (And somehow—Dean can admit this now—Dad’d become the bad guy in his own story.)

Guess there was plenty of blame to go around.

Jody was right, except Dean could tell her that it’s not a "what if" things don’t turn out the way you want when family rises from the dead. It’s a "when."

Then again, no one ever said the Darkness was known for her wish-granting abilities.

Some O. Henry shit, this is.

He’s got half a mind to go back in and take Jody up on her offer to talk, even if the thought almost physically pains him. He’s a one-trick pony, and bottling shit up is his trick. But, she’d listen, and she probably wouldn’t even make a big deal out of the fact that he’d asked. He loves Sam, but there are just some things you can’t go to your little brother about, and some things little brothers are crap about letting you live down. Sammy would want to make this into A Thing, and Dean is a thousand percent not in the mood for that.

But he won’t go back in, not yet.

Besides, Jody’s got her own shit to deal with. Her _boyfriend_ just died, for crying out loud (and he does kind of feel like a dick for how he’d reacted to that—Jody’s awesome and he hadn’t meant it like he didn’t think she couldn’t or shouldn’t "enjoy the company of a ruggedly hot man", as she’d said), and, what, he’s gonna go to her, whining about how his mom is _alive_?

He runs a hand over this mouth.

He knows who he _wants_ to talk to, but he’s not sure they’d listen. Fucking missions.

Squaring his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. But before he can even take it out all the way, it starts vibrating in his hand. For half a second, his stomach flips at the thought that somehow Cas is calling, that maybe he was accidentally sending out some prayer vibes that Cas caught.

But, it’s not Cas.

"Claire?" His stomach stops flipping and bottoms out. He can’t think of any good reasons for why the girl would be calling when she’s supposed to be at a Radiohead concert and Jody’s a hundred feet away from him.

"Hey, Dean," she says. "I—"

Whatever she’s about to say gets cut off by what sounds to Dean like a door opening, which reveals music at an unholy decibel level, especially over the phone’s shitty speakers. He frowns particularly at the music selection.

"God, I’m on the phone!" Claire says to someone on her end. The door closes and the music is muffled back down to pumping bass.

"So," Dean drawls, "when did Taylor Swift join Radiohead?"

"Called it: you’re totally a Swiftie."

"Claire."

"Uh," she hedges, "since telling Jody we’re actually visiting one of Alex’s friends at UNO would probably go over like a lead balloon? Or a _Caddyshack_ joke."

"Dude. Low blow. And what the hell’re you doing, Claire?" It’s not really a question.

"What, you gonna drive down here and take away our Jell-O shots?"

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know how Jody does this on the daily. "Jesus, just. Don’t do anything stupid. Or, stupider."

When did Dean fucking Winchester get so old? He can practically hear Claire roll her eyes at him, and his twenty-something year-old-self of yore does the same.

"Ugh, I _know_ ," she huffs into the phone. "’Sides, someone’s gotta keep an eye on Alex. I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist."

He feels like there’s something he should say to that, something that won’t land him on Jody’s shit list if she ever finds out, but Claire gets quiet and Dean doesn’t have it in him to play bad cop.

"Everything ok, Claire?" he asks, firmly, but far more gently. "You’re not hunting something are you?"

"Nah," she audibly shrugs, but then the words tumble out of her. "Just...wanted to check on Jody. I know if I call her, she’ll just say we’re kids and it’s her job to worry about us, not the other way around."

It takes every fiber of his being not to let that hit him like a punch to the gut. God, if Claire only knew how good she has it with Jody.

But, this isn’t about him.

"Yeah," he says, nodding even though she can’t see it. "She’s, uh, she’s good like that. But, she’s ok. Well, she’s holding up at least. You don’t have to worry."

It’s definitely the truth: somehow Jody’s got more of a handle on things than anyone here. Badass sheriff chick, indeed.

"Ok…" Claire says, like she doesn’t quite believe him. He doesn’t blame her. "That’s good. So…"

Dean pauses. He doesn’t want to overstep his bounds—Claire’s an adult, as much as he’d rather think of her as a kid (hell, she’s not even going to be a teenager anymore, come spring, and _when the fuck did that happen?_ ), and he’s not her parent, but he can’t hang up without knowing she and Alex are safe.

"You and Alex gonna be ok there?" he finally asks.

"God, Dean." Another unseen eyeroll. "I already got Jody mom-ing me. We’re crashing in the friend’s dorm. Got pillows and blankets and everything. And if Alex pukes in my car tomorrow, she can walk the rest of the way back to South Dakota."

There’s a part of him that wants to ask why Claire’s hiding away, calling him about her surrogate mom if she’s supposedly having so much fun at this party, but he’s pretty sure what the girl’s response will be. Only so many times he can poke the bear.

He sighs. "Let me know if you need us. For anything."

"Yeah, I will. Keep an eye on Jody?"

"’Course," he agrees with more confidence than he feels.

It’s not lost on Dean as he hangs up that the last time Claire asked him to keep an eye on someone that he did a pretty piss-poor job of it. That is, if you can call beating the ever-loving shit out of someone and nearly killing them merely a "piss-poor job". And that’s before you count being the reason they were put under an attack-dog spell, or sending them into a depression-fueled TV binge of epic proportions, or letting them get possessed by Lucifer…

Fucking hell.

He’s gotta do better—with Cas, with Sam, with Jody, with Mom. Hell, even Crowley, no pun intended.

Might as well start with Cas.

He braces himself with a hearty swig from his flask as he heads towards Baby. Her glossy paint gleams in the light from the house’s windows, and he takes comfort in her familiar, sturdy frame, leaning against her with a hip.

His phone feels like a brick in his hands.

A few taps on the screen, and then he’s dialing.

"Dean?" There’s some unholy racket in the background wherever Cas is, and his low voice nearly gets drowned out in the general uproar. Bar, by the sound of it, to Dean’s far too educated ear. And judging by the cheers, he’s guessing sports bar. Huh. Not the kind of joint he’d have banked on Crowley dragging Cas to (because he seriously doubts Cas was the one steering that ship).

The thought of Crowley somehow convincing Cas to just hang out for a beer makes his stomach turn—more than it already is—and the words dry up in this mouth. After an entirely too long second of silence, he manages out a stammered, "Uh, hey, Cas. So...what’s up?"

_You’re the one who called HIM, idiot. He’s supposed to ask YOU that._

In a strange parody of Dean’s talk with Claire, Cas responds, "Hold on, Dean. It’s very loud in here. I’m going outside."

"Yeah, sure." And because he just can’t fucking stop himself… "Partying it up with Crowley, huh?"

"That’s not…" Cas must finally be outside because it’s suddenly a hell of a lot quieter on his end, save for a distant car horn. "That’s better. It was fine until they put on the basketball game, then everyone got much louder."

"Never thought I’d miss basketball," he says, forcing his voice into something that might count as joking and casual, if you were being generous. "All anyone wants to talk about here is hockey. Or hunting. Fuckin’ wendigos."

He can almost hear the serious frown on Cas’ face. "I thought you were at a funeral. Are they so different in Canada? Or is it just hunters?"

"I am. And yeah. Just...never mind. Canada joke. Don’t worry about it." He rolls his eyes, even if Cas can’t see it.

"Ok." A brief pause. "Was there something you needed, Dean?"

_Yes._

"No, I mean, you’re busy, right? It’s nothing." He stands up from leaning against Baby, paces a few steps. A twig cracks under his boot, echoing far too loud in the relative quiet of the driveway. "Oh, uh, Mom showed up outta the blue. So. Family reunion."

"Oh. That’s nice. For you, I mean. That’s what you wanted, right?"

"I guess," he exhales before straightening his shoulders and adding, "Yeah. It’s great. Hard when family keeps taking off, ya know?"

"If God disappearing for millennia counts, then yes, I do know."

It must really say something about their lives if Dean’s only partially sure Cas is just bringing his deadpan sass A-game to the table here.

"Heh. Um." The silence drags for a long moment, and Dean can feel Cas’ impatience. Stupid slow humans, huh? "Anyway," he drawls, like they’re normal people who just chat like it’s nothing. _How was your day, honey? Fine, thanks._ On Cas’ end, Dean thinks he hears a car door slam. "So, I guess Mom knew this guy, Asa, back when he was a kid. She saved him. Been checking in on old cases and stuff since she got back."

"Sounds like she’s been busy with important things. Tying up loose ends. I’m sure she just needs time."

"Right." The word is bitter in his mouth. "Loose ends. Important stuff, hunting. ‘Cause being home, with family, that’s not important…"

Cas sighs with exasperation. "I don’t know, Dean. She’s your mother. You’d know better than I would."

"That’s not—You know what? Forget it. Forget I called. Go find Luci or whatever with your new best bud."

"Crowley isn’t my new best anything."

"Yeah, well, I’m sure Flickr says otherwise." It’s a cheap shot, even if Cas probably won’t get it. (Which is probably just as well, considering…Well, yeah. He’s not going there.)

"What’s—Dean, I don’t know what you’re talking about," Cas says, but Dean barely even hears him.

"You got stuff to do. I’ll leave you alone. Call me if you get word on Lucifer."

"Fine—"

Dean doesn’t bother wait to see if Cas as any more useful insights on the matter. The screen flashes Cas’ contact info briefly before cutting to black, but not before Dean notices his typo from the convenience store earlier today. Cass. Yeah, he’s not above making an ass joke about the angel, and not the fun kind.

He shoves the phone back in his pocket without ceremony. Another swig of the flask as if he could wash the taste of the last few minutes out of his mouth. He really should know better by now.

Footsteps crunch behind him, and while his first suspect would be Sam, it doesn’t sound like him. If it’s Mary, well, he just can’t deal with that right now, and so he barks out, like the mature individual he is, "Go away."

"You’re not the boss of me."

The voice stops him cold. Billie.

Because nothing says a Winchester pity party like a Reaper showing up to join the fun.

And the news she brings him isn’t any better, that she's here reaping a soul and it ain't Asa's. But more importantly, his family’s inside that house, apparently on supernatural lockdown with something evil, and Dean Winchester is nothing if not stupidly stubborn about saving his family. Not even Billie's laughing gaze as she watches him futilely bang on the door will stop him from trying.

"You got in there. You got in there to reap that soul. You can get me in."

"I suppose," Billie says. "But—"

"Do it!"

She’s less than impressed. "But it’s a one-way ticket. And you’re gonna owe me one."

 _Put it on my tab,_ he thinks as she hurtles him through the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to Thayer for Cas' dialogue in this chapter. :) Seriously, everyone should go read [Always Stuck in Second Gear](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11146536/chapters/24868941).


	4. A Sharper Blade

 

_Moving that eternal plow_  
_We've got to find a sharper blade, or have a new one made_  
_Rest awhile and cool your brow_

 

 

Randy’s dead.

Dean’s locked outside.

They can’t get out.

A demon just smoked out of Alicia, after telling them all the games have just begun.

His backup is a bunch of hunters he doesn’t know, Jody, and his mom. Their resources are limited at best.

( _No holy water? On any of them?_ He’ll chide himself later, that inner voice probably a weird combination of Bobby’s, Dean’s, and John’s voices.)

It’s in some ways no surprise that Jody’s the one who comes up with their next move—split up, search the house with a partner, don’t get possessed, run if your partner does. She might not be the most experienced hunter of the supernatural, but marshaling forces is just part of the sheriff gig, and she does it like she does everything else: with that steady no-nonsense he’s come to rely on from her.

Beside him, as they search the house, is his mother. Just like he wanted, right? To bond with his mother over something? Why not hunting a demon?

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

They don’t speak, moving as stealthily as possible, communicating with only a glance and a nod of the head. Sam takes point, Mary following, and as much as he’d like to trust her, he can’t help looking over his shoulder to check that she’s where he left her, that she’s got his back. He _knows_ she’s a good hunter, _knows_ that she’s capable. But she’s not the family he’s used to having at his back. It should be Dean here, or Cas. Jody, even.

A library, dark with the night and even darker with the wood-paneled walls and heavy bookcases. An office with an enormous mahogany desk and a tall-backed leather chair opposite an imposing fireplace. He can almost smell the ghost of long-gone cigar smoke from behind the desk. A formal parlor that seems to be missing a china tea set and too-polite conversation. No demon.

He turns to Mary, who shakes her head as her hand leaves a doorknob she’s just closed again. "Closet," she says under her breath by way of explanation. Her eyes flick over his shoulder towards the next door in this interminable hallway, and her lips open to say something, but freeze when they hear a commotion from the front of the house.

They jog down the hallway, and almost reach the foyer when they hear Dean’s deep voice: "Sammy!"

Something unknots in Sam’s stomach.

That is, until he sees Elvis’ twisted neck on the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Elvis is dead, and of course the fucking demon used the one good Elvis joke there is in a situation like this.

(Too soon? Probably. Whatever. This Elvis dude was a creep.)

Lorraine’s half-screaming, half-crying, and Dean gets her up on her feet and into the living room just as Sam follows their mom into the room. They each exchange an abrupt "hey", and Dean’s about to get going on this shitshow he just walked into, but he gets cut off before he can begin.

"Dean!" Mary says in surprise. "We thought you were outside."

"Yeah, I got back in."

Sam’s hands are up before him in question. "How?"

"It was a one-time deal. Won’t happen again." And thank god that stops the questions and commentary for now, but he knows his brother’s going to chew on that for awhile, knows he’s going to have to explain eventually about Billie. But there’s more pressing shit, like a goddamn demon making them reenact fucking Clue.

But if it isn’t Mr. Elvis with the black eyes in the foyer, he doesn’t know who to guess next. Where’s Mrs. Peacock and a candlestick when you need ‘em?

Inventory: they all have lighters or flashlights when the lights go out. Ruby’s knife. Asa’s angel blade, if someone can get to it. But unless everyone’s inked up, there’s no way to know who could be sporting black eyes.

He looks right at Sam as Bucky goes to get candles.

"A Devil’s Trap," is all he needs to say, and Sam knows exactly what he’s thinking.

"On it."

"Yep."

Without wasting any more time, they get right to work, shifting furniture and gathering materials to make the trap. It’s gonna be a low-budget production, but beggars and choosers and all that crap.

It almost surprises him when his mom asks, while helping them get set up, "All right, uh, but how are we gonna lure it inside?"

"We’re not," he explains. "Everybody’s in, everybody’s clean. If someone won’t get in…"

"They’re the demon."

"That’s right."

"Smart," she nods in approval.

There’s a split-second half-smile and a nod before he says, "Thanks."

He’s never called himself the brains of the operation, but for some reason the unexpected praise—unexpected from both sides of the equation—stings a little more than it probably should.

 

* * *

 

It happens when they’re checking the bedrooms, Bucky across the hall in one of the guest rooms—the one with the faintly floral off-white wallpaper and navy blue curtains—while Jody pokes her head into Asa’s room. Considering his other spaces in the house—like the study downstairs that would not have looked out of place in a certain house at a certain Sioux Falls salvage yard once upon a time (she really does have a type, doesn’t she?)—Asa’s room is fairly neat: a bed, a dresser, a closet. The decor, such as it is, is an evolution of childhood interests and adult accumulations, from the dusty framed picture of some hockey player Jody doesn’t recognize, to the handle of the sawed-off shotgun nosing its way out from under the bed, in easy reach of a sleepy hand should the occasion call.

She doesn’t even get a chance to scream before the black smoke scorches down her throat.

 **Well** **_hello_** **, Jody. Pleasure to finally meet you** , a slithering voice says in her ear.

It doesn’t matter how much she fights and scratches and kicks inside her own mind. The smoky black claws sink further and further into her, the tendrils creep through her brain.

**Aw, don’t fight me, Jody. We could be such good friends, you and I. After all, we both wanted Asa, didn’t we? So much in common!**

_Fuck off. Let me go!_

**No, this is going to be too much fun.**

_No! Let. Me. Go. You sonofabitch!_

Her body is moving, she can see Bucky coming out of the guest room, she can feel herself nod and tell him all’s clear, and then they’re going back downstairs.

 **Oho, a Devil’s Trap!** Jael crows when Dean reveals his plan. **Check out the big brain on Dean! Smarter than he looks, huh? Maybe the Winchesters aren’t as overrated as I’ve heard.**

 _Dean! Sam!_ she calls out to them, but it doesn’t matter. They can’t hear her.

 **Hmm, I think I’m more than done listening to** **_that_** **.**

She’s not sure how, but it’s like there’s a muzzle on her internal voice, and all she can do is let out muffled screams.

It’s like she’s watching it all unfold on the big screen, except she can’t get up and leave and go to the ticket booth to demand a refund of the worst movie ever. It’s there, happening, and she’s helpless to stop it.

Mary comes back in the room as they set up their Devil’s Trap, and Jael crouches her down next to Sam.

"Sam, this is awkward, I’m owning that. But the demon...I think it’s in your mom."

 _You fucking bastard!_ she screams against her muzzle, even if it’s unintelligible.

Jael raises her voice to levels of hysteria that Jody doesn’t think she’s _ever_ used, not even when Owen…

But Jody doesn’t miss the look of apprehension on Mary’s face as her eyes flick between Jody and her boys, the question in her features: who will they believe? Their biological mother or this strange woman who practically accosts people with hugs upon meeting them?

For a moment, even Jody’s not sure how this will shake out.

"Jody, you—you don’t sound like yourself," Sam frowns.

Dean’s more firm. "That’s because she’s not herself. Are you?"

And the jig is up. Jody’s minimal relief at being recognized (or _not_ recognized, in a sense) barely has a chance to grow before Mary dives in for the attack, brandishing the angel blade she must have ducked out of the room for.

It’s Sam who grabs his mother back. "No! Mom!"

"What are you doing?!" Mary cries from his arms. "She’s a demon! We kill demons!"

"No, but she’s Jody!"

 _Yes, I’m still here!_ she rails against the muzzle.

**Give up, sweetheart.**

_Like hell I will_ , she thinks to herself in whatever small corner of privacy she has left.

 **Oh, just wait** , Jael says, ignoring her struggling. **I still got a few tricks up my sleeve. Hey, you know what they say: sharing is caring. And oh, the things I can share…**

Jody doesn’t get a chance to parse that out before everyone else is knocked to the ground, the power as effortless as Jael’s flick of her wrist. And then, the sharing begins. All the secrets.

The twins’ mourning of their father…

Lorraine’s sabotage…

Jody’s fantasy future…

Bucky’s betrayal…

All laid bare, all dripping like poison from her lips. Her mouth curls around the cruel words, and they’re just as painful as the black smoke constricting and choking her from the inside out.

 

  


 

Sam pushes himself to his feet, forcing out as much of the Latin exorcism as he can before Jael commands her hands to throw him back. Dean picks up where his brother left off before he, too, crashes through glass and to the floor. Next are the twins, chanting as one, until they slam against the wall and collapse.

It’s Mary who completes the exorcism, just as Bucky admits that he killed his best friend, and the black smoke races out of Jody, singeing her veins and lungs as it’s ripped out. She falls to the floor, curled into herself.

"Jody! Jody, are you ok?!" Sam calls as he rushes to her. He helps her to sit up, pulls her close to him in comfort and relief.

"That. Sucked." Her voice is raw, and she feels like she could sleep for a month.

But it’s not over yet, not completely.

"Bucky, what did you do?" Lorraine says, her voice small and jagged, as she peers through the dim candlelight.

Bucky’s face falls and he begins his final story.

An accident, he says. He didn’t mean to.

Dean’s face is hard, and he says what they’re all thinking. "Oh, you thought people would buy that Jael killed him? So you hung your best friend to cover your own ass."

Bucky looks to the floor in shame before raising his head again, not really meeting anyone’s eyes. "What are you gonna do to me?"

"Tell everyone, every hunter we meet," Alicia says as she stands. "They’re gonna know your name, Bucky. Know what you did."

Max stands beside his sister, blood still dripping from the wound near his hairline. "You like stories. This is the story everyone’s gonna tell about you. Forever."

Bucky leaves without another word, and Jody can just barely hear the sound of his truck’s engine turn over and rumble through the driveway and back down to the main road.

Sam helps her to her feet, one hand protectively on her shoulder. Her own hand is propping herself up against his side, and she takes comfort in his solid frame. The twins lean into each other, relying on the other like they’re an extension of themselves. Dean goes to Lorraine, whose eyes seem glazed even behind the dark lenses. Mary stands awkwardly in the center of the room, as though uncertain where to go or what to do, looking around the destroyed room.

"Leave it," Lorraine says absently, waving a hand in a vague motion. Her other elbow is being supported by Dean’s hand, and Jody’s not even sure Lorraine’s aware of how much she’s still swaying on her feet. "Just another mess to clean up tomorrow."

It feels wrong to try to sleep after what just happened, but Jody can’t help but be grateful and relieved when Sam half-carries her to the guest room across from Asa’s and sits her on the bed.

"Do you need anything?" he asks, his slight awkwardness somehow making him seem very small and young.

"No," she says automatically. Sam nods with his lips pursed, then turns to leave. He’s at the threshold when she whispers, "I’m sorry. I should’ve—I should’ve—"

She doesn’t know what she should have done, could have done. Been more prepared or something, anything to prevent that bastard getting to her...

Sam faces her, and a thousand different expressions flash in his eyes. He offers her a forced smile of reassurance. "It’s ok, Jody. And, you’re not the first to get possessed. I’ve been there, too. It’s practically a job requirement."  

They both know there isn’t much either can say or do to make it better. Some things just _are._ But she does appreciate the sentiment, the knowledge that she’s not the only one...

"Thanks, Sam."

He nods. "G’night, Jody. If you need anything…"

"I will."

The door closes and she lies back on the bed, not even bothering to get under the covers or take off her shoes. Her whole body aches, her mind, too. Eventually, though, she drifts off into a restless, smoke-stained sleep.

She can’t be sure how long she’s been out when the door creaks open, casting a thin ray of light across the room, but it feels like only minutes. Or maybe hours. It’s too surreal to puzzle out. She cracks an eye just enough to see Dean’s silhouette, wakes just enough to hear soft bootsteps across the floor. A glass of water appears on the nightstand, and the afghan folded at the foot of the bed is draped on her.

The nightmares rage a little quieter after that.


	5. We Can Talk About It Now

_No sulfur, no trance, it's safe now to take a backward glance_  
_Because the flames have turned to chalk_  
_We can talk about it now_

 

 

Going out for breakfast with your mom _shouldn’t_ somehow be more draining than fighting a demon. Then again, it’s not as though Sam has a lot of experience in this department, so he’ll admit that he could be way off base. The only times he’s ever done the mom-brunch thing and it’s gone well were years ago when Jess’s mom would come visit her every now and then, and after the first few times, Sam got an invite, too. Jess definitely took after her mom—smart as a whip, warm and inviting—and so those mornings had been fun, although it had taken Mrs. Moore a little while to warm up to Sam; he always got the sense that she was trying to puzzle him out, figure out the truth behind his cagey answers about his family and childhood. He didn’t exactly blame her, but it had made things a little awkward in the beginning.

Breakfast with Mary was a whole other ballgame, and he tries not to visibly sigh with relief when they pull back up to the Fox mansion and park alongside Mary’s car. And if he didn’t know Dean as well as he does, he might have missed the way his brother’s shoulders relaxed just a hair as well.

"So, you’ll call?" Dean says, his voice carefully neutral. "If you need anything," he adds.

Mary nods, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. "I’ll be ok, but I’ll call if I need you."

Sam forces a smile. "Yeah, any time, day or night. You got a hunt, we’ll be there."

"Right." Dean’s jaw works, but then he says lightly, "And hey, there’s a diner not far from the Bunker—even better bacon and hash browns than here. Plus, y’know, bacon actually means bacon, not ham. You ever wanna stop by..."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dude, that place is like an hour away."

"Yeah, which for Lebanon is practically around the corner," Dean fires back.

Sam bites down on whatever response he was going to make, given the _shut the hell up, Sam,_ look in his brother’s eyes. Instead, he opts for a exasperatedly fond,  _Dean’s a drama queen, right?,_ look at his mother, which she acknowledges with the barest hint of a half-smile.

To Dean, though, she says, "Sounds like my kind of place."

Neither of them comment that that isn’t exactly an acceptance of the invitation.

After that, it’s an awkward good-bye and stiff hugs, and Mary’s pulling out of the driveway, headed to parts unknown. Sam starts to turn back to the house, but Jody emerges from the front door, giving Lorraine a final hug at the threshold.

"Don’t be a stranger, Jody," Lorraine calls after her as Jody slings her bag over her shoulder.

The sheriff nods, and when she turns around again, Sam catches the briefest makings of a frown before she smiles broadly at the two of them. "Ready to get this show on the road?"

"Always," Dean nods.

Both of them offer Lorraine short waves, which she acknowledges with a raise of her glass—a Bloody Mary, if Sam had to guess—before disappearing inside again. Sam slides into his seat while Dean pops the Impala’s trunk for Jody’s bag. With a slam of the trunk and two matching clunks of doors as Dean and Jody get in, they’re ready to leave.

As soon as the engine turns over, the radio starts up, right where they left off in the middle of _Led Zeppelin IV_ , just as the final notes of "Stairway to Heaven" trail off. Dean frowns, and forcefully ejects the tape. But instead of flipping it over to start the next side, which, Sam realizes belatedly, would be pointless, since the tape deck does it for you, Dean tosses it into the shoebox by Sam’s feet.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to frown, but he knows better than to question or argue.

"Give me something else," Dean says, already starting to steer the Impala down the long drive and back to the main road.

"Uh…" Sam can count on one hand the number of times he’s been allowed to pick the music as the passenger, and there’s no way this isn’t a loaded question. He shuffles clumsily to reach the box and just grabs the first tape he comes across: Metallica. "This work?"

Dean steals a glance and nods. "Yeah. Whatever."

So, with "Enter Sandman" as their soundtrack, they make their way back home. Turning in his seat, he catches Jody’s eye, and she gives him the smallest of shrugs.

"So, uh, how was breakfast?" Jody asks.

Speaking of loaded questions…

Sam purses his lips, not entirely sure how to answer, thinking of the stilted conversation—

 

_"So, what kind of hunts have you been on?" Sam had asked._

_"Oh, you know. The usual." Mary crinkled a straw wrapper between her fingers. "Nasty poltergeist in Colorado, just before I came up here."_

_"Old case?" Dean’s voice had tried for casual, but had missed by a mile._

_Mary’s eyes darted between them. "Sort of. Loose end."_

_"Yeah," Sam had offered. "Hard to leave a case unfinished, you know? I get that."_

_A brittle smile. "Yeah. Exactly."_

_A tense silence, broken by the arrival of their meals._

_"Oho yes," Dean had said with almost obscene gusto at his plate, piled high with eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, and toast. "Thanks, sweetheart."_

_The waitress blushed and rolled her eyes at the same time, then retreated before Sam could ask for a refill of his coffee._

_"This does look good." Mary looked with eager eyes at her own plate, equally piled with a heart attack waiting to happen._

_Across the table, Dean munched on a strip of bacon—and, Jesus, how had he made it through half of his bacon already?_

_"Good thing I told ‘em I wanted the real stuff," he said, in between chews._

_Sam sighed. "Pretty sure you weren’t going to get Canadian bacon—"_

_"We’re in Canada, Sammy."_

_And then both Mary and Dean had dived into their meals like they were their last. Sam had half-heartedly picked his way through his veggie omelette._

 

"It was fine," Dean answers Jody’s question, bring Sam back to the present.

"Uh huh," Jody nods. "Sounds like it."

There’s an unspoken invitation in her tone, though.

"It was a little awkward," Sam finally admits. "But, you know, she’s still trying to figure stuff out. And last night was rough."

"Understatement," Jody snorts. "Well, I got to spend my morning with the mom of the guy I was kinda-sorta dating and his previously unknown adult children, so…"

Dean huffs out a laugh. "Good times. How’d that go?"

Jody shrugs. "Awkward, but not bad. I kinda stayed out of their way. They’re good kids. Feel better leaving Lorraine with them around."

The conversation peters off after that, Metallica providing the only distraction. Dean taps in time to the music with his thumbs on the steering wheel, but it’s obvious his mind is elsewhere. Sam turns back around to face the front, even if it means he can’t see Jody; he knows his back will kill if he stays half-turned the whole ride. Jody, too, grows quiet. But, at least the silence, while not entirely relaxed, is a heck of a lot more comfortable than the tension at the diner.

It occurs to him, some miles down the highway, that he never did video chat with Eileen last night, like he’d promised. He pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick apology, saying something came up last minute. A minute later, he gets a response asking if he’s ok. He assures her he is and that he’ll try to chat with her later. As much as he likes Eileen, he’s not sure he has it in him to be social at the moment. Instead, he’d rather just lean back against the familiar leather seats and let the sounds of the road and his brother’s music lull him. And so that’s what he does.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean knows Jody means well, but he’s just not ready to dredge up the metric ton of shit that is his mommy issues. Jesus, he _almost_ regrets giving Crowley crap about Rowena.

But, ya know, it’s Crowley, so…

Even that’s not _entirely_ fair, but whatever. Things are complicated enough without bringing Crowley into the mix—Crowley, who is off with Cas, presumably making the angel’s life a living hell, and after last night, Dean’s a little peevishly happy about that.

What a dick.

He’s not sure if he means the demon or the angel.

Why not both.

Anyway, Jody doesn’t pry, but she leaves the conversational door open, which Dean is ashamedly grateful of, and he guiltily wonders if he’ll ever nut up and actually take someone up on that offer or if he’ll always just push this shit down to some deep corner of his fucked up mind and tell himself that’s what men do and that’s how he’s gotta get through the day.

See? He’s not totally unaware of what a basket case he is. Someone give him an award for personal growth or some shit.

Both sides of Metallica play out right around the time Baby starts asking for a little fuel, so he simply turns the radio off, throwing the car into silence as he noses her towards an exit. They’re maybe a half hour over the border, back in the good ol’ U.S. of A., and for some reason, Dean finds himself breathing a little easier the more distance they put between themselves and Manitoba. Sam rouses himself from his stupor in the passenger seat when the music turns off.

"Gas?"

"Yeah." He considers making some sort of quip about that being the only gas that’s acceptable in Baby—let’s just say that all of Sam’s green livin’ may be healthy for _him_ , but it ain’t doing Dean any favors—but he doesn’t. Personal growth and all that.

This time it’s Sam who heads off into the gas station mini-mart while Dean stays behind and fills up the tank. Jody gets out to stretch and comes around the car to lean against it while Dean pumps gas.

"You doing ok?" he asks her.

She’s got her arms crossed, like she’s hugging herself, and she lifts a shoulder. "Been better."

"Story of our lives."

"Amen." A pause. "How ‘bout you?"

Dean hesitates, swallows the brush off on the tip of his tongue. "Been better," he echoes. He looks in the direction of the store, where he can see Sam’s figure making its way between narrow aisles. "Sam’s a good actor, but...I think the stuff with Mom’s gotten under his skin more than he lets on."

It almost feels like a betrayal, admitting that. He should be able to take care of Sam, shouldn’t need to tell someone else about it. But he also remembers washing dishes in Jody’s kitchen, listening to her stress about Claire and Alex, and maybe that’s just what (normal) people do. Well, normal-ish, at least.

Jody follows his gaze, then looks back at Dean. "Yeah. Must be a family trait. Offer still stands, you know."

"I know. Just...not now." He hopes she understands that he’s not trying to be a dick about it. "Thanks, though. And same." They’re silent for a moment while Baby gets her fill—she’s a thirsty girl. Definitely not a cheap date. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets, his right hand jarring against his phone, and a thought occurs to him. Maybe he won’t be making any calls today, but someone should. "Hey, uh, don’t wanna step on anyone’s toes, but you should probably call Claire and Alex."

Jody gives him a look—not so much in question that she should, just more that he brought it up in the first place. He shrugs, scuffs a boot against the cracked cement.

"Claire called last night. Wanted to check in, see how you were doing."

"Claire did?" Jody blinks exaggeratedly. "Did Hell freeze over?"

Dean snorts. "If it did, I’m sure we’d hear from Crowley bitching about it."

"Ugh." Jody shakes her head at the mention of the demon. "She’s really come around, huh? I mean, no poster child or anything, and I’ve gone a lot greyer since she showed up, I tell ya, but…"

"She’s a good kid," Dean finishes, and Jody agrees with a small, fond smile.

Gazing into the middle distance, somewhere among the fields lining the road, Jody bites the inside of her cheek for a moment. "You, uh, you didn’t tell her about the demon, did you?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, she called before that. But, um, she might wanna hear about it. From you."

"Yeah," Jody agrees with a reluctant sigh. "Not a conversation you wanna have with your kids, though. I mean, it’s not like there’s a book on talking to your teen about demonic possession."

"Maybe there should be."

"No kidding." She pushes herself up from the car’s edge just as the pump clicks off.

Dean follows suit to replace the pump and the gas cap. He’s still crouched behind the car when he says, quietly, away from Jody’s eyes, "Kids hate it when parents keep stuff from them." It’s not an accusation.

Jody goes quiet and Dean can’t drag out replacing the gas cap any longer. He straightens up finally, but goes to the machine and jabs a finger at the Yes button for a receipt even though it’s a stolen credit card—not like he’s gotta balance the books. But it buys him a few seconds.

"Family’s never easy, is it?" is all she says. Out loud, at least.

"Yeah." And the Winchester brand is probably more complicated than most.

"Well, just remember: family’s what you make of it." Behind her, Sam exits the store and makes his way towards them. "And that goes both ways," she adds pointedly. "Horse to water."

He knows. He does. He tries to make himself believe it, to not take it all personally, but that’s kinda his M.O., isn’t it?

Taking in a breath, he nods. "You’re good people, Jody."

She smiles and chucks him on the arm. "I have my moments. Musta caught me on a good day."

 

* * *

  

Getting back in the car and on the road is uncharacteristically silent, at least from a musical perspective. She hasn’t traveled long with the boys, excluding this trip, but even over short distances on the odd hunt here or there, Dean almost always has music playing. Jody remembers belatedly that Dean had shut off the radio before the exit with the end of the Metallica tape, and she wonders what blast from the past they’ll get next.

Not that she’s complaining. Don’t get her wrong, she likes (some of) the newer stuff that Claire and Alex listen to, but she knows she’s a dinosaur in their eyes, and Dean’s music is the stuff she grew up on. More or less. There was always a healthy dose of country music, too.

They ride in silence for awhile, and Jody’s thoughts drift off once again as she watches the unremarkable landscape flash by. Sam, by the hunch of his shoulders, is probably engrossed on his phone, and Dean is driving with the casual high speed of someone who does this as naturally as breathing.

"How’s it going back there, Jody?" Dean asks at last.

"Dandy," she answers, which is close enough to the truth that it doesn’t even ring too hollow in her own ears. She’s not great, but there’s something almost soothing about being on the road like this.

Sitting up, she leans over the front seat in between the brothers. The windshield of the Impala is wide enough to truly match the flat expanses of North Dakota, and it’s almost like a panoramic picture. A very boring one, but still.

(As a South Dakotan, she feels morally obligated to say so.)

"You boys think you’ll stick around for a bit when we get back?"

Sam and Dean exchange a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glance at each other before Dean replies, "Should probably head back to the Bunker..."

"We’ll say hi to the girls, though, before we leave. If they’re back," Sam adds, continuing his brother’s train of thought.  

"Can’t entice you to another evening of thrilling dinner conversation?"

Sam chuckles as he looks at her. "The mashed potatoes and gravy were worth it."

"Dude. So good," Dean agrees with a nod of his head. His eyes flick back to hers in the rearview mirror, and they’re light and crinkling at the corners in a way that she hasn’t seen in awhile.

She shakes her head. "You guys greatly exaggerate my cooking skills."

"Key word: ‘your,’" Dean says. "Always better when someone else cooks. That’s why Sammy’s been mooching off me for years. That, and because his idea of cooking is a salad."

"C’mon, I can make more than a salad. I do know how to cook, Dean."

"Yeah, but you _don’t_. Or it’s healthy, rabbit food crap."

Sam purses his lips. "Think angel Grace can clear up cholesterol? Might wanna ask Cas next time he’s around."

"Bite me."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Alright, enough you two," Jody interjects, looking between the both of them. Something by Sam’s foot catches her eye—a shoebox, by the looks of it. "Hey, gimme that," she says, pointing at the box.

Sam’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. "Dean?"

"Oh c’mon, man. It’s Jody. Give her the box. It’s not my freakin’ soul."

"Coulda fooled me," Sam mutters under his breath as he fetches the box and passes it back to Jody.

"What was that?" Dean glares at this brother.

"And here I thought I was free of two teenagers for the weekend…" Jody comments, settling back in the seat with her prize. She smiles as she flicks through the cassettes. "Can’t believe you still have tapes," she says with only a hint of a tease. "Even _I_ have an iPod."

"I have an iPod," Dean grumbles. "But Baby’s a classic. Don’t need high tech crap douching her up."

"It’s all good," Jody assures him, and effectively cutting off whatever surely witty remark Sam was about to make.

She continues her search, the plastic clattering together as she shifts around the tapes, reading the labels. Many are yellowed with age and the ink has faded. A few look newer, Dean likely having made new copies of his favorite albums when the originals wore out. _Led Zeppelin IV_ , for instance, looks almost brand-spanking new. There’s no mixes or anything, just full albums. Some have chipped plastic cases with sun bleached album cover art, but most are just tossed in at random.

"Pretty sure I only have one cassette left," she muses as she pulls out Creedence’s _Chronicle_ album. She hands the tape up to Dean, who gives it a quick look and a nod of approval before swapping it in for _Black_ , which he passes back. Jody returns it to join its buddies in the box.

"Just the one?" Sam prompts as the music starts up towards the end of "Green River".

Jody smiles sadly. "Mix tape from...from my husband. He made it for me back in our ‘sparkin’ days’, as my grandmother used to say." Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. Jesus, why does everything these days have to threaten the floodgates? "Sorry," she says with a sniffle. "Didn’t mean to be a downer."

"No, it’s fine," Sam smiles back at her with soft and sympathetic eyes, then looks to his brother; Dean’s knuckles are white and his shoulders are taut. "Dean?"

"What?" he snaps, then slumps. "Nothing. Uh, yeah, no worries, Jody."

Sam peers at Dean for a moment, as if trying to puzzle him out, but whatever he decides, he doesn’t press the matter, and instead turns back to Jody. "We get it. That kind of stuff is important. I still have a few things of Jess’. Wasn’t much left, after the fire…"

"Jess?" Jody asks.

Sam swallows. "Girlfriend, at Stanford. Long time ago."

"Doesn’t mean it’s not important." Sam looks to her with silent gratitude, and she exhales slowly. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know."

"It’s ok."

But of course it really isn’t.

"Well, we’re just a barrel of laughs," Dean says darkly.

Sam and Jody chuckle weakly. As "Commotion" fades out to be replaced by "Down on the Corner", Jody can’t help but feel a little better with the more upbeat rhythms. She’ll be home soon, can see her girls...

Speaking of…

Jody pulls out her phone, realizing she hasn’t checked it in awhile. Dean was right—not that she’d been planning on keeping what happened to her last night a secret; the girls deserve to know. No secrets.

(Well, they can keep their secret that they didn’t really go to a Radiohead concert. Jody’s not that naïve—she knows a college partying plan when she hears one.)

There’s a message waiting for her when she unlocks the screen. Claire’s sent her a picture: Alex passed out in the passenger seat, her face pressed up against the window. The photo quality isn’t great (she feels she should chastise Claire for taking it as she drives), but Jody’s pretty sure she can make out a faint line of drool. The caption reads, _arent u proud?_

 _Oh so proud,_ she texts back, rolling her eyes as she does.

But, truthfully, she really is.

She’s lost a lot, it’s no lie, but looking at this picture, then up at the two men sitting in the seat before her…

Well, maybe it’s not all so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> All epigraphs taken from "We Can Talk" by The Band
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!  
> And make sure you give some love to my artist, [marsjay](http://marsjay.tumblr.com/)!!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
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